


To love another person

by YvonneSilver



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-27
Updated: 2015-03-27
Packaged: 2018-03-16 00:32:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3467753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YvonneSilver/pseuds/YvonneSilver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Universe Alteration - Enjolras' heart is on the wrong side, so the shot to the heart didn't kill him. This changed everything.</p><p>--</p><p>After the barricade is taken down, Javert returns to search for the bodies of the two men that let him escape. To his surprise, he finds one of them alive. As he nurses Enjolras back to health, he begins to fall for the young rebel.</p><p>Enjolras awakens after the barricade to find that the infiltrator he failed to kill is the one who saved his life. The headstrong young man refuses to admit he's indebted to Javert, until he slowly begins to fall in love with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To love another person

There was a watchful silence as Javert made his way down the empty streets towards the barricade. The only sound was the sharp clicking of his dress boots on the cobblestones, but he knew there were many scared eyes watching from the locked buildings on either side.

Noises from the tavern began to reach him as he got closer. The shouts of soldiers, the creak of carts, the crashes of the barricade being torn down. He rounded the corner and was caught short by the display he saw there. The blockade he had infiltrated only the night before was already in ruins, scraps of wood and broken furniture spread out along the street. Javert recognized half a piano crumpled against a building, a stack of chairs further on.

But what had made him stop in his tracks was the bodies. There were so many of them. All young men in their prime, their lives snuffed out by this foolish uprising. They lay were they had fallen, draped like ragdolls over their broken ramparts, limp fingers still clutching feebly at their rifles. The street was colored red with their blood.

He could have been among them.

 

Javert hadn’t intended to survive. Indeed, when he’d been discovered, he had vowed not to be captured alive. He had wanted to go down fighting for the Law, as he had been his whole life. But there had been a man who had foiled that plan. A man with eyes like fire and hair like spun gold. A man who had knocked him down with a single stroke.

When he came to he had been trussed and bound, on his knees like a prisoner of war, a rope around his neck to prevent him from running. The man had been there, towering above him like a shadow in red and black. Even in his groggy state, Javert had recognized the fire in him. He had been holding a passionate speech, one fist in the air. Javert had been sure he would die then. He’d known the speech would end with Javert as an example, the first of the bourgeoisie to fall. The man built up to his grand finale.

“And if we should fall, we will go down fighting!” He shouted, to enthusiastic uproar from the listening crowd. Then he turned suddenly to Javert. His face had been inches from the inspector’s. He had smelt sharply of gunpowder, but underneath that there was a whiff of lavender. Javert knew this would be the end. But the next words were not what he’d expected. “And the last bullet in my gun will be for you.”

The rebel could have shot the inspector right then and there, to prove a point, to rally the men. But he didn’t. And because he didn’t Javert had still lived when Valjean had arrived. Another confrontation that hadn't gone down as he expected. Valjean, the prisoner he had doggedly hunted, had passed up the opportunity for vengeance and let the inspector go free. It was almost beyond Javert's ability to understand. He owed his life to two criminals.

 

Javert steeled himself and pressed onwards down the street. They had been criminals, yes, but their judgment was now in the hands of God, and Javert wouldn't dwell on it. Here on earth, Javert would ensure their bodies were given proper burial at least. All men were equal in death.

He stopped short a couple of meters from the blockade. Laid out on his back beside two rebels, was the young boy who had recognized Javert beyond the barricade. His keen eyes now stared unseeing up at heaven. Javert’s expression hardened. Despite the boy’s betrayal Javert had never wished for this. Not this. He knelt down, and in an abrupt gesture of respect, he unpinned the medal from his uniform and bestowed it on the boy.

 

As he passed the remnants of the barricade, he was halted yet again. Men may be equal in death, but the body he passed was not that of a man. It was that of a girl. She lay against a splintered barrel, her dark hair framing her pale face. Her hands were stained red where they were folded over her stomach, but there was a peaceful expression on her face. She might have been simply sleeping.

Javert cursed inwardly. Why would they have let a woman on the barricades? A girl still. Too much innocent blood had been spread in these streets. He balled his fists at his side as he marched onwards.

Carts were arriving at present to remove the bodies from the streets. There were shouts from the soldiers breaking down the barricade. Javert ignored them all, except for two soldiers he caught joking outside the tavern.

“This is no laughing matter!” He thundered, sending them scurrying away to their duties in the aftermath. Javert was in a foul mood. He had always been sure he was on the right side, the lawful side, but here, surrounded by dead men he’d heard laughing and drinking the night before, he could see no righteousness to it all.

 

When he reached the second floor of the tavern, Javert found the first of the two bodies he was looking for: the curly-haired blond, the leader of the rebellion. He lay spread-eagled on the wooden floor like a broken puppet. A red cloth was wound around his right hand, a red sash was tied around his hips, and a red stain bloomed on his white shirt right above his heart.

Moved by sudden emotion, Javert knelt by his side and took his left hand. His hand was still warm, but his face was pale. The memory of a grim smile still played around his lips. The inspector could see why men would flock to the man's side to fight a hopeless fight: even in death he was beautiful. Javert felt a pang of grief that he hadn't got to spend more time with this young man. He gently brushed aside a stray curl. To Javert's complete shock, the man moaned and leant in towards the touch. He was still alive!

Javert sprang up and took two paces backwards. This was impossible. He could see where the musket ball had pierced the man’s heart. Yet he was still breathing. It had to be some kind of miracle, Javert thought. It had to be a sign.

At that moment he heard commotion on the floor below. It wouldn't be long before others found this man here, and then his fate would inevitably be sealed. Javert couldn't let that happen. He had to save him.

 

* * *

 

Enjolras swam up out of a black, dreamless sleep. He didn’t know how long he’d been out, and when he opened his eyes, he didn’t know where he was. The little room he was in was grey and bare, like a nun’s cell. He lay under starched white cotton sheets on the bed in the corner of the room, beside the door. Against the far wall beneath the high-set window was a sturdy wooden desk and a single chair. Papers were stacked neatly on the edge of the desk. Against the left wall was a small white sink and a pile of neatly folded brown towels. Beside it was a pine-wood closet.

He lay back against the pillow. Even simply looking around the room had tired him out. But he was alive. Against all hope, he was alive. Memories of the revolution returned to him with a suddenness of a summer's storm. He could almost smell the gunpowder again, hear the shots and the screams that followed them. He wished he was unconscious again.

Everything had been lost beyond all hope. The barricade had fallen, his friends... Enjolras swallowed heavily. His friends had fallen. And he had stood with the red flag of the revolution in his hand and invited the end to come. Yet here he was, alive and well. Or as well as any man who had been shot could be. Had any of his friends survived too? Somebody had brought him here, so at least one of them must yet live.

 

Before he had time to ponder that, the door opened, and it was not one of his friends that entered.

“You!” Enjolras gasped, as the traitor that had infiltrated the barricade appeared in the doorway. He attempted to scramble up, but a sharp pain flaring up from his left shoulder hindered his movement.

In two quick steps, the inspector was at his side. He put a hand on his shoulder and pressed him gently but firmly against the covers. “Stay down. You are still weak.”

“Or what? You’ll arrest me? Inspector?” Enjolras spat the title like a curse, though he was too weak to resist his gentle push.

“Or you’ll tear open your wound and bleed to death," the man answered stoically.

“Hrmph.” Enjolras grumbled, but he settled down, propping himself up against the headboard. He didn’t have much of a choice, really. Already his head spun from the sudden rush of adrenaline he had felt at seeing his old enemy. He closed his eyes.

"Are you a ghost?" Enjolras whispered. There was a short bark of a laugh beside him.

"No," the inspector rumbled. "I am no more a ghost than you."

Enjolras opened his eyes to see the inspector standing beside him, as real as could be. He looked old and tired, deep lines burrowed in his forehead and dark circles beneath his eyes. Yet he was as smartly dressed as ever, a white dress shirt tucked neatly in his uniform slacks, his graying hair smartly parted to the side.

“Where am I?” Enjolras whispered weakly. “Why am I here?”

“Eat,” the man commanded, handing him a wooden bowl of soup. “Rest. We will talk later.”

Enjolras dropped his head. He was too tired to argue. His shoulder hurt. There were too many questions in his head but he dreaded any answers he would get from this man.

He ate in silence, and even before he was half-way through the meal he felt his consciousness begin to fade. Strong hands relieved him from the bowl and tucked him back under the covers. Despite everything that had happened, Enjolras felt safe. He let himself slip back into oblivion again.

 

* * *

 

Javert watched over the young rebel as he recovered. At first he mostly slept, waking only to sleep or to relieve himself. But slowly life was returning to him. Color came back into his cheeks, and he could sit upright long enough to finish eating and hand the bowl back. Sometimes Javert would come in and see him just as he was stumbling back into bed after a few experimental steps.

They didn’t talk yet. They both knew it was a precarious peace they’d brokered here; the officer harboring a criminal, the rebel depending on the established. Javert didn’t know how to talk to the strong-willed young man without scaring him off. As for the rebel, maybe he was too stubborn to talk to him. Maybe he too was worried speaking would break the spell that hung between them.

 

On the sixth day, Javert redressed the young man’s wound, his brow furrowed in concentration as he carefully rewound fresh white strips of dressing around the man’s chest. The wound had seemed to be healing well, though the man winced as Javert tucked the bandage into place. Javert looked down to find him staring up at him with big brown eyes. He was reminded suddenly forcefully of the brown woolen blankets his mother used to wrap him in on cold winter’s nights.

Javert didn’t realize he was staring until he found something brushing against his cheek. He took a step back in surprise as the man dropped his hand back on the bed.

“Why did you do that?” Javert asked, confused.

The man shrugged. “I wanted to see what it felt like.” They were the first words he’d spoken since the first time he’d woken up. His voice was deeper than Javert remembered.

Javert turned away, absentmindedly brushing against his beard himself.

 

“Inspector Javert.”

He froze at the seriousness of his tone, then turned back slowly.

The man pulled himself up and stuck out his chin to give himself an air as if he was above it all, trying to hide how his chest heaved underneath the white gauze. “Am I under arrest?”

Javert hesitated, giving himself time to think. “No. I don’t think so. Though I’d be distressed if I were to find you gone.”

The honest answer seemed to disarm him, and he lost some of his bravado. The man nodded thoughtfully. “Inspector Javert?” He asked, looking up once more. Suddenly there was a fragility about him that had nothing to do with his wound. “What happened to my friends?”

All of a sudden Javert was struck suddenly by how young the man still was. He peered out at the inspector underneath his greasy mess of curls, as if afraid the answer would come like a slap.

 

Javert retrieved the chair by the desk so that he could sit at the man’s bedside. It was time to talk. But as he sat down he found it difficult to find the right words to say.

“Monsieur.” The young man prompted once more. “Are my friends...” He swallowed heavily. “Did anyone else get out of the barricade?”

Javert shook his head gravely. After he’d managed to smuggle the rebel out on one of the carts, he hadn’t been back to the tavern, but the lieutenants assured him that no-one else had escaped from the rat-trap the barricade had been.

“Then the revolution was a failure.” The man said bitterly.

Javert placed a worn hand on his. He could tell he was holding back tears. After giving him a moment, he asked, as gently as he could: “What is your name?”

The man looked up, blinking forcefully. “Enjolras,” he whispered.

“Enjolras. You may call me Javert.”

“I didn’t want to shoot you.”

Javert was caught off guard by the sudden change of subject, but it seemed to be something the man really needed to get off his chest.

“On the barricade.” Enjolras clarified. “I didn’t want to shoot you. You were a spy and a threat to the rebellion and I couldn’t... I couldn’t...”

As his voice faltered, Javert gave a slight squeeze in his hand. “There is no shame in defending life.”

“And a damn good job we did of it!” Enjolras shouted.

Javert drew back. “I’ll let you get your rest,” he said stiffly. He pretended not to hear the wails behind him as he closed the door. A man should be allowed to grieve in peace.

 

* * *

 

For a while, Enjolras wished he had died on the barricades with his friends. But in the end, that kind of darkness was not in his nature. He was a man who moved forward, come what may, and though he’d known little of such grief in his life before, he would handle it well now that it had come.

The following day Javert brought him a bucket of hot water, and after having the chance to wash himself at the little sink, he felt like a new person. No, he felt like himself again, getting the grease out of his hair and the remnants of blood out from underneath his fingernails. The way he'd been before the barricade.

He knew that he could never go back to being that carefree lad again, not after everything that had happened. But he was starting to appreciate the fact that he'd gotten a second chance. Even if that second chance had come from one of his old enemies.

As he toweled off his unruly curls, he shot a sideward glance at the inspector. Javert looked away quickly, but Enjolras knew he'd been staring. He grinned. The beginnings of a prank had sprung in his mind. He knew exactly how to put the great inspector back in his place.

 

After Javert had helped him back into bed (Enjolras had apparently twisted his left foot somehow after he’d been shot, and it wasn’t healing properly), Enjolras held his hand a moment. The inspector hovered above him, waiting for him to say something, but Enjolras remained quiet. He simply stared up into those grey eyes, clear as glass beneath his stern eyebrows.

Enjolras realized he'd missed his window when Javert began to pull away. With a sudden urgency, Enjolras grabbed him and pulled him down into a passionate kiss. The stormy eyes widened in surprise as Enjolras pressed his mouth against Javert’s. Enjolras closed his eyes. It only lasted a couple of seconds, then the inspector pulled away.

“What the... What was that?” Javert thundered, but it was not as impressive when preceded by such a look of pure and utter shock.

Enjolras couldn’t help but laugh. His heart was racing, but he tried not to let it show. “Inspector,” he said playfully, “you saved my life. I owe you that and much, much more.” He put on his most seductive grin.

“That is not why... I do not... I.” Javert huffed and stuttered the start of many unfinished sentence, before gathering what dignity he could and stomping out the door.

 

As the door slammed closed, Enjolras leaned back against the headboard, licking his lips. That was more satisfactory than he thought it would be. He'd never kissed a man with a beard before, and the prickle of those short hairs still lingered on his skin. And the look in those clear grey eyes just before Enjolras had grabbed him, he could've sworn...

Enjolras shook his head forcefully. No, this was supposed to have been a joke. A way to throw that rock of a man off-balance, to see what he looked like underneath the veneer of respectability. It was a way for Enjolras to prove that the man had no control over him, even if he had saved his life.

Except it had proven that, somehow, he  _did_  have a hold over him.

Enjolras was always a man of passion, quick to fall in love, quick to fall out of it. But he had never fallen this hard before. And certainly not for such a man, a lap dog of the oppressors. It simply wouldn't do. He brushed his fingers over his lips. And yet... 

 

* * *

 

Javert leant against the wall and absentmindedly ran his fingers across his lips. His anger had vanished as soon as he’d closed the door behind him, leaving only confusion in its place.

He had never felt this way before. He’d heard other men boast about their conquests, or regale about a stolen kiss, or lament an unanswered love, but he’d always considered himself above such things. No woman had ever stirred Javert’s heart that way. And now there was this man…

Javert shook his head in disbelief. It was not possible. Such things were not meant to be. And yet… There were other things about this man that were not meant to be. He wasn’t even meant to be alive. Yet he had returned among the living, though for what purpose Javert could not guess. Was he from heaven or from hell?

Javert resolutely pushed himself off the wall. He needed to get away from here. A long walk would do him well. Perhaps when he returned, Enjolras would be asleep once more and they could simply go back to quietly ignoring each other.

 

It was busy on the streets, but Javert passed through the crowds easily. The citizens of Paris knew better than to bother the inspector, especially when he was wearing that thunderous frown. Javert didn’t even notice how the throngs parted before him. He was still deep in thought about the blond youth he’d left behind.

He hadn't even realized where his footsteps were leading him, but when he halted in front of the church he nodded sagely to himself. Of course. Here were the answers he needed. It was quiet inside the thick stone walls after the busy street. The cool air and the revered silence filled the inspector with awe. He moved down the aisle as quietly as he could, and kneeled down in the front most pew to pray.

When he rose again, he knew his answer. It was indeed a miracle that Enjolras had survived, but it couldn't be his miracle. He was simply an instrument, meant to save the man, but nothing more. He would have to put his selfish needs aside.

 

When Javert returned, Enjolras was not asleep as he'd hoped. He sat propped up against the pillow, waiting quietly for the inspector's return, but when Javert came in he avoided the man's gaze. Javert knew his heart, but he also knew he could conquer it, as he had conquered all his weaknesses. He knew now deep in his heart that the miracle could not be meant for him. This young man would never love one such as him, and it was foolish of Javert to hope so. Though he had saved Enjolras' life, it didn't mean that it belonged to him. He had no right to ask for anything in return. He could not afford to fall in love with this man.

For a while he thumbed listlessly through a book at his table, trying not to feel the eyes of the man behind him burning in his back. Then he left the room and returned with two bowls of steaming broth from the landlady downstairs. They ate in silence.

Finally, Enjolras broke the silence, his voice unexpected in the slowly darkening room. "Monsieur Javert? Where exactly am I?"

Javert looked up, surprised. He had thought it pretty obvious. "You're in my home."

"Your home? It's so bare!" Enjolras exclaimed and Javert reviewed the room with a new perspective. There wasn't much to survey. He didn't need much, just a roof over his head, and the warm meals the landlady prepared for him twice daily.

He shrugged noncommittally. "It has all I require."

They were both silent again. Suddenly Enjolras sat up. "But then this is your bed!" He said. "Where have you been sleeping?"

Javert shrugged again, off-balance by the unexpected questions. "I grew up on caravan floors. I don't need a bed to sleep."

Suddenly Enjolras grinned, and an impish gleam came to his eye. "You know, we could share the bed if you wanted."

 

Javert felt his heart-rate quicken. Oh, this boy with his mischievous grin would drive him mad, he was sure of it. But he wasn't having it. He wasn't having any of it. He would not be made a fool of in his own house. Javert got up stiffly, picking up their two empty bowls. "I require no such compensation from you. Please do not offend me with false flirtations."

The boy's face fell, and suddenly he looked less like the rascal and more like the young man he was. "I apologize. You have treated me well and done nothing to deserve my mockery."

He looked so serious all of a sudden, and Javert knew he was lost. The bowls clattered to the floor. With two firm strides he was at the side of the bed. He had fallen in love with this man, consequences be damned. He threaded his fingers into Enjolras’ curls and leant forward to kiss him. He closed his eyes.

The man’s mouth was open and inviting. They kissed greedily, finally answering to the tension that had hung between them all this time. Javert was still clumsy and insecure, but Enjolras knew exactly what to do. He guided Javert’s tongue with his own, licked softly over Javert’s teeth, gently bit his lower lip. When Javert felt his neck begin to hurt, he turned slightly and lowered himself unto the edge of the bed without breaking contact. Enjolras put his left hand on Javert’s thigh. Javert tensed, but he just let the hand lie there, his warmth radiating through the thick fabric. All there was in this moment was the kiss.

 

They finally broke apart, panting. As Javert slowly opened his eyes, he caught the wince on Enjolras’ face. The rebel had his right hand pressed protectively against his wounded side. 

"I have hurt you." Javert observed, worried.

Enjolras shook his head, but his face looked drawn.

Javert felt the guilt like a punch to the gut. His charge was still recovering from a near-deadly wound, and here he was pressuring him to repay a debt that didn't need repaying. Javert had promised himself not to ask anything of him, but he had a lapse in self-control and now Enjolras was hurt. "I should go," he said, his voice thick. He got up hurriedly, but Enjolras’ voice stopped him.

“Please stay.”

Javert turned back, and saw how pitiful the man looked. A broken bird in a nest of tangled sheets. He sounded so fragile that Javert knew he wouldn’t be able to resist.

 

The inspector removed his shoes and socks, his overcoat, his dress shirt, his pants. When he was stripped down to his undershirt and underwear, Enjolras scooted over to the other side of the bed. Carefully, Javert crawled into the bed beside him. He tried not to touch him, but the bed was small and every time they brushed together it was as if sparks flew between them.

Finally, Javert lay down on his side with his face to the wall. Behind him, Enjolras turned onto his uninjured side and carefully draped his arm around him. It was an not unknown sensation to Javert, the feel of a warm body wrapped around him, but he hadn't shared a bed like this since he was a child. He felt oddly protected in the boy's skinny arms. His worry seemed to drain away, and within minutes, he was sound asleep.

 

* * *

 

 

Enjolras healed well under Javert's continuing care. They still didn't talk much, and after that second kiss they Enjolras didn't press his advances. Javert hadn't seemed to appreciate them, and to Enjolras' surprise he didn't want to upset the inspector. Javert in turn seemed to be avoiding the young rebel, spending less and less time in the room. He left for work with first light and always returned long after dark. However, they did keep sharing the single bed.

Enjolras would watch covertly watch Javert strip down to his underclothes, before scooting over to the side of the small bed to make space for him. Javert would lay down next to him and throw him an unreadable look before rolling his back to him. Enjolras consistently curled up behind him, wrapping his left arm around him. If Javert could feel his arousal when they were pressed together like this, he didn't acknowledge it. But he didn't move away either.

The young man was confused. He had been almost sure there'd been a connection between them when they kissed. He didn't understand why Javert would be pulling away so strongly. But Javert had mastered the unreadable frown, and Enjolras couldn't be sure. Perhaps he'd only imagined the attraction. It was a stupid idea, Enjolras thought, that someone as rigid and grim as Javert would fall in love so quickly, especially with a reckless fool like himself.

He cursed himself for being so pushy. He should've just been grateful for everything the inspector had done for him instead of trying to get more out of him. And even after his poor behavior, Javert was as patient as ever. So Enjolras took comfort in the nights they shared together and tried not to push his luck.

 

A week after their first night together, Javert brought Enjolras a walking cane. It was a simple model, a long stick of dark wood, with a lighter knob at its end. Enjolras' foot still refused to heal properly, but with the help of the cane he successfully hobbled through the room.

Enjolras saw the writing on the wall then. Sure, Javert insisted that he stay inside longer, that he should heal properly, but he probably only said that to be polite. Enjolras knew what the dutiful inspector must think of him, the insubordinate rebel. He couldn't stand staying much longer in his magnetic presence knowing that there could never be anything between them.

 

The next day, after Javert had left, Enjolras snuck out of the house. Since he couldn't find his own clothes, he'd had to 'borrow' some from Javert, but luckily they fit him pretty well. They would be something to remember him by.

Assisted by the wooden cane, Enjolras made his way into the heart of Paris. He didn't have an exact plan, but as soon as he was outside he knew where he had to go. There was only one place he'd have to visit to find closure. After that, he'd make his way in the world just as he always had.

 

Enjolras had forgotten how crowded the streets could be. He stayed close to the houses, keeping his face in the shadows and leaning heavily on his cane as he shuffled towards the Rue de La Chanvrerie. For some reason, he'd expected the crowds to thin as he approached the memory of the barricade, the thrum of the city falling away until he reached the respectfully quiet monument at the site where so many young men had given their lives in the name of freedom. But the Rue de La Chanvrerie was a side-street like any other, filled with the shouts of merchants and ripe with the stench of the city. The blood had been washed off the streets, and only the soot stains and bullet holes on the buildings gave a hint of what had happened here only weeks ago.

The tavern they'd commandeered as revolution headquarters was still boarded up, but Enjolras knew the door would open inwards. As he pushed the door open a crack, he felt a small hand tug on his shirt. A little girl with big brown eyes and straight black hair looked up at him, a worried frown on her face.

"You can't go in there. It's haunted," she said with all the seriousness of a superstitious six-year-old.

Enjolras looked around him, but no-one else was paying any attention to his attempt to trespass. He breathed a sigh of relief, but made a mental note that he'd have to be more careful. The gendarmerie might still be looking for him. He knelt down beside the little girl.

"Don't worry about me. The ghosts are my friends." Realizing what he'd said, tears sprung to his eyes. He attempted to smile through them. "Run along now. I'll be fine."

He watched the little girl disappear into the bustling crowd. Then, he ducked underneath the planks barring the doorway and shut the door behind him. Immediately the noise of the streets fell away. Enjolras gave his eyes a moment to adjust to the dim light.

 

The room was a forlorn sight. Though stripped of all its furniture, the dusty room was littered with the remnants of the revolutionaries. Mostly papers, and empty bottles. From the railing of the stairs the noose still hung. They'd restrained Javert there, when Enjolras realized he couldn't kill him. He should have, he knew that. A traitor in their midst was the last thing their fledgling rebellion had needed. But when Javert had lain unconscious at his feet, he'd known he could never kill that man. He'd even had the faint hope to free him once the rebellion had succeeded. Even when their situation worsened, he'd felt some kind of comfort knowing that if the barricade fell, at least one person would come out alive.

That hope was taken away when Valjean had arrived at the barricade, and demanded the life of the prisoner. Before Enjolras even had time to think, Gavroche had already handed the man his pistol. There had been nothing he could say, no way to justify his feelings even to himself. All he could do was give the man a knife to cut the prisoner's bonds, so that at least he wouldn't die with a noose round his neck like a common criminal. What else could he have done? He'd had a war to fight, and he couldn't put his own feelings before the success of the cause. He'd said as much to Marius too.

Suddenly he felt weak at the knees, with the memory of his friend. Marius, poor Marius, who'd fallen in love for the first time, had died here. Enjolras stumbled forward, seeking support from the railing, overcome with emotion. They had mocked Marius when he came here with tales of his puppy love in the midst of their fiery revolution. But the revolution had failed, and all their sacrifices had been for nothing.

Enjolras took a deep breath and began to limp up the stairs. He'd run down these steps once, a lifetime ago, with his friends clamoring their imminent victory, full of bravado. They'd all been so excited to be the start of the revolution. Now they were all gone.

 

The second floor of the building hadn't been cleared. There hadn't been enough time to move everything down to the barricade. The room didn't look any less ransacked though. Upturned chairs, half-burnt candles and more littered the room. Enjolras stepped carefully over the shards of glass, making his way to the open window. There was a red stain right in front of it.

Enjolras looked out the window at a cart making its way down the busy street. It was strange to see how life continued out there, when in here... He'd been shot here, right at the spot he was standing now. Grantaire had stood beside him when the muskets fired, loyal to the last. Enjolras reached for the bandages on his left breast. It had healed well enough, but there were deeper marks that would take longer to heal.

 

Enjolras stumbled down the stairs. He couldn't stand to stay another minute in this place. He felt nauseous and light-headed. He halted at the bottom as the realization began to sink in. He should have died up there, beside his friend. There was no reason why he should have survived when all the others had not. He limped down the last two steps, and his hand found the length of rope tied around the railing. No reason except one.

Javert had found him, smuggled him away from the barricade, and nursed him back to health. Even though Enjolras was a rebel. Even though he had knocked him out and tied him up. The enormity of what the inspector had done for him began to sink in.

With trembling fingers, without even realizing what he was doing, Enjolras began to unknot the noose. It must have been a huge risk to carry the leader of the rebellion out of the house and back to his home. Enjolras realized suddenly how ungrateful he had been. Caught up in his desire for the man, he hadn't even taken a moment to thank him. He'd been so busy trying to seduce him, he hadn't even thought of it. What a fool he had been, with his inappropriate remarks and childish games. And now he'd snuck off, like a thief in the night. Before he left for good, he would have to make amends.

 

He returned to the room to find Javert seated at the desk under the window. As soon as Enjolras saw him, the well thought-out speech he'd planned melted away. He wished he could find a way into the man's heart, find a way to stay here forever. But he'd promised himself he'd set aside his longing and properly thank Javert like a grown-up. He deserved that amount of respect, at least this once.

Enjolras cleared his throat and Javert turned to face him. Enjolras' breath caught in his throat. Instead of the impassive mask Enjolras had come to expect, he saw the inspector's face was filled with an anguish that Enjolras hadn't thought possible. If he hadn't known him, he would've sworn the man had been crying.

"I thought you were gone." Javert slurred and Enjolras' eye fell on the silver flask in his hand. He'd been drinking.

The realization hit Enjolras like a sledgehammer. Suddenly everything seemed to make sense. He could see that under the inspector's stiff appearance had been a man afraid to get hurt. He'd thought that if Enjolras left he'd be gone for good. Enjolras' heart melted at the thought.

"You thought I wouldn't come back." Enjolras said, crossing over to Javert's side.

"Why would you come back to this?" He motioned to the spartan room.

Enjolras smiled. How much time had they wasted misunderstanding each other? He gently took the flask from Javert's limp hand and put it on the table so that he could hold his hand. "I didn't come back for that. I came back for this." He kissed him softly, and couldn't help but smile at the surprise on Javert's face. "And if you will have me, I would like to stay for a while."

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> As always, comments are much appreciated.
> 
> P.s. There's an epilogue [ here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3626973/), where Enjolras and Javert discover what happened to Marius after the barricade fell.


End file.
